


Cheer Up The Lonely Day

by veramendacious



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, M/M, Mutual Pining, Office Party, s4 archives crew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:29:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25179214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veramendacious/pseuds/veramendacious
Summary: "Mandatory party for all Institute employees next week to celebrate" - her voice goes high with disbelief - "Cheer Up The Lonely Day, July 11! Snacks and favors will be available in the break room, signed Martin K Blackwood, assistant to Peter Lukas."Jon's stomach jolts. He leans a little further out the door.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 5
Kudos: 114





	Cheer Up The Lonely Day

**Author's Note:**

> July 11 is Cheer Up The Lonely Day, a real holiday that I found very funny for some reason.

"Is this a joke?"

Jon looks cautiously out his office door at Melanie's outburst. She's glaring at her laptop, the usual expression of low-simmering anger she wears on her face now boiling over.

"What you got there, Mel?" Basira asks, not bothering to look up from her book.

Melanie jabs a finger at the screen and reads through gritted teeth, "Mandatory party for all institute employees next week to celebrate" - her voice goes high with disbelief - "Cheer Up The Lonely Day, July 11! Snacks and favors will be available in the break room, signed Martin K Blackwood, assistant to Peter Lukas."

Jon's stomach jolts. He leans a little further out the door.

Melanie crosses her arms, fuming. "Bad enough that he leaves us in this hell hole, now he's mocking us for it? What a wanker."

Basira looks up with interest. "Sounds like a blast," she says, raising a sardonic eyebrow. "Should we crash the party?"

Melanie's spluttered outrage almost drowns out Daisy's snort. "Maybe it's a cry for help," she says from somewhere on the floor.

Melanie rolls her eyes so hard her whole body moves. "He has a phone," she says dismissively. "He could call, he could text! He could send a meme so we know he's still alive and hasn't had his sense of humor sucked out of him by his evil fear god sugar daddy!"

Jon eases off the doorframe he's leaning on and slumps down in his chair, suddenly unsure.

It's true that Martin hasn't reached out in any capacity other than the bland monthly work emails he now sends, apparently as part of his duties as Peter Lukas' personal assistant. He hasn't, as far as Jon knows, made any contact with the Archives staff, and he certainly hasn't willingly spoken to Jon. Their minimal interactions since he woke up have all been initiated by Jon, and Martin tersely and pointedly ducked out of all of those attempts. He is at the very least consistent in his rejections.

Jon stares blankly at the mess of files and paperwork scattered across his desk. _Is_ it a cry for help? A coded message for Jon to finally come rescue him?

Jon tries to imagine it: the small, barren break room upstairs crammed and stifling with people Jon doesn't know all making inconsequential smalltalk. Perhaps Martin would lean against a wall with a red solo cup in one hand and a party hat perched jauntily on his soft-looking hair; he always gets enthusiastic for these uncomfortable coworker events, he likes to buy into the silliness. But his shoulders would still hunch to make himself smaller in the crowded room, he'd still smile awkwardly and anxiously avoid eye contact with anyone, and then perhaps Jon would walk in and their eyes would lock across the room and -

Jon shakes his head sharply. No, Martin wouldn't resort to cryptic messages hidden in the monthly institute email chain. If anything, this sounds like a prank, and that makes Jon very nervous. Peter Lukas doesn't seem like the sort of person to take pranks lightheartedly, especially not one so on the nose.

Whether Martin is carrying out a joke or an experiment or a direct calculated strike against Lukas and the Lonely, Jon can't be sure of his motives unless he reaches out more directly, and Martin's been nothing if not clear about his wishes in regards to that. So Jon will wait, and trust, and hope that Martin is safe.

-

Jon is resolutely ignoring the clock. He hates wearing a watch, hates hearing the constant ticking of it; he supposes he should take it off for good now he can just Know what time it is. He likes the way it looks on his wrist though.

It's a little after 6pm and Jon's gotten absolutely nothing done when Melanie slams the office door open.

"Catch you moping?" she asks. She doesn't wait for an answer before strolling inside, snatching up the half-drunk mug of weak and long-cooled tea. He warily watches her make a face before dumping it out in the bin. He barely has time to open his mouth to protest before she clunks down a truly enormous bottle of whiskey on top of the files he was glaring at.

"Move," she says, stalking purposefully around the desk toward him, and he scrambles out of the desk chair and out of her way, watching with resigned confusion as she arranges herself comfortably in his seat, one leg tossed over an armrest.

"Make yourself at home," he sighs. She ignores him as Basira and Daisy walk in.

Daisy immediately flops down on the floor and sets to work passing out the collection of chipped mugs she brought in. Jon takes one, a dull green color with a crack running up the side, and then turns to sit next to Basira in the chairs on the other side of his desk.

"What's happening," he says weakly.

"Keep up, Jon," Basira says matter-of-factly, "you're getting drunk."

"Right." Jon looks from Basira to where Melanie is now carefully pouring Daisy some whiskey. Quite a lot of whiskey. "Can I….Why?"

Daisy takes a slow sip and hums, satisfied. She sits with her back against one of the legs of the desk. One of her hands brushes against his ankle. "Because we're not going to that stupid party."

"And we're not letting you go either. Here." Melanie gestures impatiently at him to hold out his mug. He does so reflexively, though he feels a dull bitterness wash through him.

"You don't have to babysit me," he says quietly as Melanie fills his mug with, oh. That's really an unconscionable amount of alcohol. "I'm not going after anyone for a statement, I'm not even going to leave the archives."

Daisy's fingers wrap gently around his ankle, hidden from view close to the floor.

"Jon." Basira's voice is solid but gentle. "You're lonely. Cheer up." And she clinks her mug against his.

He glances at her, startled, then at all three of them. They look at him expectantly. There's a small smile playing on Daisy's lips.

"Well," he says, raising the mug. "All right then."

-

Jon is drunk.

It's nice. He hadn't been sure he could still get drunk, and there's a giddy warmth rising in his chest at the knowledge that his body still reacts in a predictably human way.

He squints down at his empty mug, willing it to fill itself. It used to be filled with bland, mediocre tea. The whiskey is better. Martin's tea would be best.

"If I have to hear about _Martin's tea_ one more time I'm really going to kill him with a pen, " Melanie says in an observational tone as she reaches over to refill his mug.

"Hush," Daisy says. "He's pining."

Jon scowls into his mug. "I'm not," he mutters.

Basira snorts. "You are."

They all seem to be faring much better than he is. Jon finds this distinctly unfair.

"I'm not. _Pining_." Jon enunciates the word clearly, hoping he'll sound more believable. "I just." He sighs. "Miss him."

"We know, Jon," Daisy says. She's unfolded herself to lay flat on her stomach on the floor, limbs loose and arranged carelessly. Her eyes are closed and she looks almost relaxed. The relentless energy she carries under her skin seems to have dissipated.

" _Stupid_ party," Melanie grumbles.

"I just wish he'd talk to me," Jon says plaintively. He likes to imagine he sounds longing and thoughtful. He's pretty sure he just sounds whiny.

"He really doesn't even talk to you?"

Jon turns to meet Basira's gaze. She looks perfectly aware and capable. Unfair.

"He just makes up a reason to not talk to me and then leaves."

Jon thinks he sounds sad now. Maybe very sad.

"Huh." Basira seems almost impressed. "Maybe you do have a chance, Sims, he just does his vanishing trick when I try to talk to him."

Jon considers this and finds himself perversely pleased. It wouldn't feel right if Martin talked to someone else before him. He wants to be the person Martin wants to talk to.

He takes a meandering sip of his whiskey. It's nice. He sighs again.

"Oh christ, if he cries I'm leaving." Melanie's voice is very loud.

He tries to focus on her, still lounging in his desk chair. She probably messed with the height lever. It'll take him ages to get the setting just right again. "I just miss him," he finally says. His voice is much quieter than hers.

Daisy knocks her foot against his as Melanie groans. "Ugh, write him a note or something."

Jon stares at her. "Do you think that would work?"

Basira laughs, but it's not mean. She sounds warm. It suits her. "All this sulking and you haven't even left him a message?"

"I'm not sulking," Jon mutters before her words sink in. "Course I left him messages. Some texts and." He winces. "And a lengthy voicemail."

Melanie lets out a bark of laughter before she yanks open one of Jon's desk drawers and starts rummaging around inside. "Here," and she throws a pad of post-it notes directly at his chest. He lets it hit him, slowly bringing a hand up to stop it from tumbling to the floor. "Write him a message."

Oh. Jon _could_ write Martin a message. Of course it's that simple.

He stares at the blank sticky note for a long moment, distantly aware of Daisy reaching for the bottle of whiskey on his desk. "What. What should I write?" he asks?

He's met with three identical exasperated sighs.

"Can't help you with that one," Basira says, and to her credit she does sound somewhat apologetic. "You're looking at three whole lesbians here. It took us this long and this much alcohol to figure out 'write him a note.' "

He nods thoughtfully. It'll be better if he writes it himself, gets the words exactly right. Something that'll make Martin _have_ to talk to him. Or at least think about him.

Jon heaves himself to his feet, one hand flailing for the edge of the desk to stumble upright. "I. I've got to go," he mumbles. He clutches at the pad of post-its Melanie had flung at him.

Pausing to steady himself on the doorframe, Jon takes a moment to look at them, draped in varying states of relaxation over his office. He feels a sudden, overwhelming fondness.

"I, hmm," he says. His tongue feels too big for his mouth. "Thank. Thank you."

Melanie ignores him in favor of morosely frowning into her mug. Basira flutters a loose hand in his direction. Daisy looks up from where she's slopping more whiskey into her glass.

"Good luck out there," she says with a tight smile, and he attempts to return it. His face tingles.

"Yeah," he says, looking down at the sticky notes, rifling his thumb across the loose edge. "Yeah." Then he turns and stumbles his way out of the Archives in search of Martin and a pen.

-

Martin doesn't slam the office door closed behind him, but it's a near thing. He leans his head against the wall for a moment, eyes closed, taking in the blessedly cool silence of his office.

The Institute party had been a calculated risk. He'd mostly done it for the joke, a private lonely little chuckle with himself. _Cheer up the lonely day_. It was too good to pass up. If he needs to he can justify the absurdity of it, if Peter ever even notices. Claim some sort of an experiment on deepening the Lonely's siege on the Institute employees through reverse psychology, drawing attention to their feeble attempts to stave off the bitter aloneness that pervades the building, making it starkly obvious that attempts to get to know their colleagues only furthers the isolation as the uncomfortable truth that they have nothing in common other than their location of work settles in.

Martin knows how to be lonely at work.

Martin takes a perverse joy in doing his part to make the event miserable, drawing from years of Institute holiday events he's attended; everything had been just slightly off, the chex mix stale, the lights flickering, the chatter of the coworkers empty and hollow. It worked a little too well, he thinks, tipped the balance just too far into a genuinely miserable time rather than a bonding experience. Sometimes the loneliest someone can ever feel is in a crowded room. He doesn't think he'll be doing something like this again, too much potential for risk. His coworkers there were lonely, yes, and very aware of it, but they were still lonely together.

And Jon wasn't there.

Of course Jon wasn't there. Martin wasn't really expecting anyone from the Archives to take any official correspondence involving the rest of the Institute seriously, and he's unsure if Jon even knows where the main break room is located in the building. It doesn't matter anyway, he's sure Jon is busy. What would he even say to him if he was there?

Martin sighs and feels lonely and hates it.

He finally flips on the office light, absentmindedly noting the fluorescent hum from the ceiling as it blinks to life. It used to bother him, but now the sound is just part of his collection of dull background noises. The tick of the clock on the wall that used to drive him crazy, the squeak of the wheels of his fancy ergonomic desk chair, it all blends together in a monotonous cacophony of meaningless noise he can focus on instead of other people talking to him. It's nice.

There's a post-it note stuck to the lid of Martin's laptop, the pale yellow of the paper stark against the steel grey of the machine.

Martin doesn't leave himself sticky notes. His work surface is left clean and bare at the end of the day. He hasn't made the mistake of leaving himself something so personal as a sticky note in months.

The quickest glimpse of the familiar handwriting slashing unsteadily across the little square of paper sends Martin into a panic. He lunges for it, ripping it off the top of his closed laptop and instinctively crushing it in his hand as though hiding evidence. There's no one here to see it, of course. He's only hiding it from himself.

It doesn't matter what Jon has to say, he tells himself sternly as he deliberately tips the wadded up ball of paper into the wastepaper basket next to the desk. The crumpled sallow yellow stares accusingly back at him from a sea of crumpled white printer paper.

He returns to his chair. He opens his laptop, mechanically checks his email, doesn't read a word. He taps his finger idly on the space bar.

The fluorescent light buzzes overhead.

Martin sighs and retrieves the crinkled paper from the bin. He unfolds it with shaky fingers.

Two words. Two words in Jon's sharp, slanting handwriting, written in the black-blue of a regular ballpoint pen, taking up most of the square.

**Cheer up!**

And tucked underneath the words in the corner, as though an afterthought, is the small, crooked, uncertain doodle of a heart.

Martin stares at the note for a long time, smoothing his fingers over the wrinkles in the paper and the firm indents where Jon pressed too hard with the pen.

Then he carefully tucks the note away in his top desk drawer and returns to his email, feeling inexplicably cheerful.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!


End file.
